This blog is (mostly) a near-verbatim transcription of my writing journal. Margins are the same as the journal. These are exercises, not finished products. Other types of writings will most likely emerge at some point.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Journal 54 - Assimilating Soil and Bumpy Tongues

I like a tap on the shoulder of a stranger telling me
she likes my smile or my hair, longer in recent years.
There is a bit of honesty in this pass-by compliment of
a stranger. I wonder if animals in the wild or the
non-wild compliment each other. Hey, that was a nice
leap one gazelle says to the other with a certain
twitch of head and antlers. Is communication as confused
among non-human Earth sojourners? Communication in
my world is like putting the 45 record player on the
33 speed setting; or like putting a high-density floppy
disk in a low-density drive. Communication is sitting
in a room at night with the lights on, unaware of
what's outside seeing only the reflection of the stagnant
furniture in your internal room. Halle Berry could be
standing outside naked and whispering I Love You but
who would know? They say language is a game and
I suck at games. Surrendering to the flow is lauded in
certain circles as the key to a more helping friendly exist-
ence; even surrendering like an Aeolian Harp though seems
rudimentary and naive. Should I float upon the
indecisive wind like a wondering leaf? A leaf dead
and falling off the branch though beautiful in its light
fracturing beauty, drifting wherever and whenever to the
ground only to rot and decay into the assimilating soil, or
to be raked up into a trash bag and sent to the local
government funded shredder? I think surrender is the
dream of an intellectual artist the way a white knight
is a dream of the callow girl. Surrender is the path of
trampled feet - but it's so easy to do. Leaves can be interesting
in their descent toward the ground - providing a landing pad
for happy laughter inducing children - children with
laughs so true and dense that there is a slight strengthening
of the gravitational field surrounding them - sucking you
into the orbit of their happiness. Dreams are sleep-deprived
in their longing to whisk you out of the world you
cater to each morning and evening, drinking the water of
foreign fountains and staring at your tongue in the
mirror watching it turn black, noticing for the first time the
bumps she felt when she slid her tongue across yours while
everyone was asleep.